Sexual preferences: dragons (and women)
by ohtasha
Summary: In which Charlie puts his love life in the hands of his four (least, on occasion) favourite nephews; or, in which a ludicrous bet and raging hormones prompt James, Albus, Louis and Fred to take matters into their own hands.


"Ron, dear, would you fetch-"

"Oh, hang on, you've got cream on your nose. No, it's alright, I've got it-"

"So, you and Jennifer. That's what, six months now? And there we all were thinking you were a commitment-phobe-"

"Look, Rox, if she's doing that behind your back, ditch her. She's not worth the trouble and you're so much better than that, sweetie-"

That the Burrow was small was common knowledge; whether the applied term was 'snug' or 'cosy', the underlying fact was that the Weasleys, money and inclination aside, really ought to have upsized some time ago. Charlie Weasley, though, was fairly certain that the labyrinthine feel to the family home was almost single-handedly responsible for his inclination towards dragons. Boys will be boys and all that, and the fire-breathing, reptilian nature of the animals was undoubtedly another mark in their favour, but Charlie was long since convinced that growing up in such closely-confined quarters had instilled in him a profound fondness for the winding and intricate lairs favoured by dragons.

However, there was a distinction between 'small' in the sense of living rooms being neatly proportioned and guests doubling, or even tripling up, in bedrooms and queues forming outside bathrooms (the longest so far, James measured the other day, had taken an hour and a half to pass through), and 'claustrophobically-painfully-sickeningly-miniscul e'. Being a tall man himself, Charlie was accustomed to feeling slightly wedged in, but today that sensation had hit new heights. The Burrow, his beloved, if out-grown, childhood home had become threatening in a way it had never been before. Being trapped by fiercely maternal dragons, Charlie could handle; being incarcerated amongst, squidged and sandwiched between, confined with lovey-dovey couples and crushing adolescents was quite some way outside his comfort area.

A million miles outside.

A million astronomical units outside. (A measurement Lucy, their resident Wizarding astro-physicist, had introduced them to not long ago, and one that had proved surprisingly useful in problematic situations.)

In fact, Charlie would rather dance the tango barefoot on the surface of the Sun with a heavily pregnant Hungarian Horntail than sit at the dining table (or rather, the dining tables, as six had been magically joined together and covered with vaguely matching tablecloths to accommodate the sheer number of guests) for any longer than he had to. As Victoire, unfortunately sat next to him, moved her finger into position to remove the last of the whipped cream from the end of Teddy's nose, Charlie made his move.

"Sorry," he mumbled, as he extracted himself slowly and arduously from the love nest, although the process had gone more smoothly in his head when he had imagined making his great escape. The tables, all six of them, rattled and cutlery shook as he hauled himself away; his elbows were all over the place and frequently found themselves employed in a spot of target practice (Teddy, at least, had the good grace to Transfigure the black eye away); and not for the first time, Charlie found himself cursing the genetic makeup that had bequeathed him with elegance and refined movement in the air, but the grace of a blind elephant when on the ground.

Finally, though, he was free and as soon as he was out of the vicinity of kissing noises and girlish laughter, he could breathe again. Great, beautiful mouthfuls of uncontaminated air whistled in through his mouth and swirled around inside, leading to a sense of euphoria unlike anything Charlie had ever known.

He could _breathe_ again.

It wasn't a panic attack, as someone had suggested at one of the first monthly Weasley family lunches, when such an episode had occurred. No, it was, as Charlie had come to think of it, a love attack.

It wasn't that Charlie hated the notion of love, or had something against falling in love. You couldn't very well grow up as a Weasley, or live to experience some of the things that he had, and not appreciate the warmth in a lover's voice, the kindness in their eyes, the beatific smile that graced their lips when their partner came into view.

No, it was more a case of Charlie having an issue with the _practical_ side of love. A case of him loathing the mushy, soppy sentiments that fell out of a lover's mouth (case in point: Victoire); hating the cavity-inducing sickly sweet behaviour and silly little noises couples made together; despising the ultra-rose-tinted view lovers took on life. Such things were ridiculous, unnecessary and over-the-top, and had no place in Charlie's life of threat containment, pragmatism and, above all, sense and sensibility. There was a code one followed when dealing with dragons; cut the crap and get to the heart of things, no time for messing around, and human lovestruck behaviour violated that code in a multitude of frankly unacceptable ways.

Perhaps if humans followed the amorous code dragons stuck to, then things might be easier; dragons, beautiful as they were, were reserved in their affections and far from prone to emotional outpourings unless provoked. Humans, on the other hand, needed no other occasion than waking up at the beginning of the day to profess their undying passion, which, in Charlie's view, was ridiculous.

Charlie was brash and bold and muscled, all sinew and sweat. Unlike the characters in the Muggle action films Lily loved, he wasn't the sort of male hero whose scarred and buffed exterior suggested toughness and brutality, but whose interior was made entirely of rose petals and marshmallow fluff. Charlie wasn't the sort of man who had it in him to melt like chocolate when his lover smiled and he didn't appreciate any form of exposure to that kind of behaviour.

If only human couples were more like dragons, then he might be able to stomach being around them for longer than pre-drinks and the starter course.

If only he could find a woman like a dragon, then, perhaps, he wouldn't be the one sitting on his own at the next Weasley lunch.

"Alright, but what's in it for the winner?"

"The joy of having prompted the creation of a loving relationship and watching it blossom into something profoundly beautiful?"

"Al, that's as camp as a row of tents. Sure there isn't something you haven't got round to telling us yet?"

"Oh, fuck off."

"Make me."

"Maybe I will. More brawn than brains, aren't you, Jimmy?"

"Ok, if you two can put your little lovers' tiff to one side for the moment, we do have a slightly more pressing issue to attend to. What's the prize?"

"Enough Wizard's Wheezes for a lifetime? Rest-of-Hogwarts-time?"

"Right, because it's not like we get a family discount anyway. Good one, dumbass."

"Fifty Galleons?"

"Alright, Little Orphan Annie, we'll play for bread. Come on, something worth the hassle."

"I don't see you putting forward any suggestions."

"Am I, or am I not, in the presence of two Ravenclaws and a Slytherin? This should be right up your streets. I'm merely the brains of the whole operation."

"Jim, you weren't born with a brain."

"I swear to Merlin, I will- Hang on, what about the Cloak? "

"Um, wow."

"Shit mate, are you serious?"

"Look, I'm not one to turn down a priceless object when it comes waltzing in my direction, but James, that's insane. Beyond insane. The sanity line is about a million miles behind you. You know what that Cloak is, and it's not yours to give away. It's as much mine as it is yours."

"Of course I'm bloody serious, there's no point going gentle with this. Either we go all out or we don't bother, and I know which option I prefer. And as for that, Al, I've got it right now so you'll just have to work harder if you want to win it."

"If the Cloak's in, I'm in."

"Hell yes, me too."

"Fine, whatever. But when I win, don't any of you think you're ever borrowing it from me."

"Wait, it's nearly the end of August, we've only got a few days before we're back at school, and Charlie'll be back in Romania at some point. Do we put a time limit on it? Say, if none of us has won by Christmas, then we call it off?"

"What, scared of a little competition? Nah, this goes on until someone wins, or Charlie gets off his arse and beats us to it."

"Disclosure agreement?"

"Speak English."

"Well, clearly someone's not aiming for Magical Law Enforcement… It's a confidentiality agreement; do we get tell the girls and get them involved, and can we get outside help? And also, are we gonna start it off together, make sure he's on the right track, and then go our separate ways?"

"Magical Law Enforcement, my arse. I reckon you should go for Poet Laureate or something, you've got the gift of the gab."

"I'm French, not Irish, you git."

"Either way you're bound to end up writing chick-lit novels and wearing floaty scarves."

"But I reckon being French is slightly more emasculating. There's something manly about a pint of Guinness that you just don't get with a shot of black coffee from a bistro in Paris."

"James, I swear to-"

"I swear on all things Trek, if you don't shut up, you'll see what exactly happens when you spend six years in a dungeon with Anatole Zabini. No, we don't get the girls involved because they'll go mental, and no outside help. This is between us. We'll start it off together, but after that, it's each to his own. No discussion, no pairing-up, nothing until someone wins."

"Crikey, Trek and Zabini in one sentence? Gents, he's serious."

"Yeah, I am, because in two minutes, Aunt Hermione's gonna walk through that door and force us back to the table unless we get a move on and get out of here. And also I'm certain that there is a spider crawling underneath my shirt."

"You'd think being in a dungeon for so long would get you used to being surrounded by things that deserve to be squashed with a boot. And I'm not talking about the insects."

"Original, James. Minute and a half."

"Wait, what about Hugh?"

"Hugh's got more than enough problems of his own to deal with."

"What're you on about?"

"If you don't know, I'm not telling you. Not right now, anyway. One minute."

"Alright, alright. Gentlemen, let the game begin."

"Is it being French that makes you prone to dramatics, or being part Veela?"

"It's being French and part Veela that going to make me punch you in the face if you don't shut up…"

Charlie's choice of hideout was nothing but strategic, one borne from many previous unsuccessful attempts to avoid whoever had noticed his absence and had come to coerce him into coming back to the table. The kitchen was out of bounds, as he was liable to end up helping his mother put the finishing touches to the fifteen desserts she had made (and Charlie, like the dragons who either ate their meat raw or chargrilled, was no domestic goddess); the sitting room and his bedroom were too obvious, the first places the nosy parker who had come after him would think to check once they found the kitchen empty. He'd learned his lesson about the downstairs bathroom the hard way.

So instead, he sought refuge in the garden shed, crouching down amongst both the broomsticks he remembered flying on as a child and the sleekly streamlined Firebolt 5000s that the young'uns were flying nowadays. That he could have been flying. Would've been, if Finlay Wood was anything to go by. But that was neither here nor there. With his head in his hands and knees under his chin, he tried anything and everything to lower his heart rate, to clear his head, to stop his hands from shaking from the damned consequences of wishy-washy romantic behaviour.

He hadn't always had such an allergy to love; for the love of Merlin, he'd had girlfriends at Hogwarts, had been the best man at Bill's wedding. But then the whole world had started getting engaged and getting married and producing sprogs of their own, who then had boyfriends, girlfriends, fiancé(e)s, husbands, wives of their own. Jealousy? Perhaps that was in part to blame, but then Charlie knew he had always preferred dragons to women, as one of his exes had so eloquently screamed at him mid-break up.

Perhaps it was something he was doing on Fred's behalf. Brotherly solidarity and all that; they could be bachelors together, go stag together, while everyone else coupled up.

Perhaps, as he more realistically suspected, it was more a case of hating the whimsical consequences of love and romance than hating love and romance themselves. A case of not at all being the sort of man who was prepared to go doo-lally over a woman, as women seemed to expect.

Perhaps, as he knew deep down but refused to admit, he was lonely and being surrounded by couples madly in love made him feel more alienated and estranged than living in Romania did.

At the sound of the shed door being prised open, Charlie looked up like a deer in the headlights, fervently hoping that it wasn't his mother or Hermione or Ginny or Fleur or Audrey, though the somewhat aloof latter was the more preferable option of those five. Upon seeing his four (least, on occasion) favourite nephews stumble their way through the cluttered shed, some with more grace than others, Charlie wasn't sure that he wouldn't rather face the wrath of his mother.

Charlie thought his hiding place was secure, out of the way and not particularly obvious; and, to be fair, anyone looking for him, other than the four of them, would have long since turned around and gone back to the dining table with a pitiful look in their eyes. But the fact remained that it was the four of them who had gone looking for Charlie before anyone else had the chance, and as such his location was easily discovered, fairly conspicuous and exceedingly obvious. The creation of a Marauders 3.0 map of the Burrow did, admittedly, work in their favour, but years of conning fellow students and recreating the havoc of the Marauders and the Marauders 2.0, as Fred and George Weasley had come to be known, had imbued in them the instincts needed to avoid trouble and detection as quickly and easily as possible.

Accordingly, the garden shed, with paint peeling off the door and cobwebs in every nook and cranny, was the most obvious choice of hiding place in the vicinity.

And so, the four of them crossed the ocean of motor oil still leaking from the Ford Anglia, braved the gnomes in their adopted habitat and trekked through the forest of broomsticks, all in aid of finding the uncle they wanted to help. For his own sake, though admittedly their own sakes were vastly important in light of the prize agreed upon.

"How's the weather over there in emotional Siberia," James called out with a grin on his face, the first of the Cupid Crusaders to spot their uncle crouched down in a dark, miserable corner.

"I- Usually I'd say something about you having all the delicacy and diplomacy of a bull in a china shop, but I'm actually more surprised that you can make a reference like that. Congrats on getting an education." Albus stood smirking at the back of the group, a relatively, yet momentary, safe distance from his brother's clenched fists.

"You little bastard," James started, but after a glance at his forlorn uncle, he stopped himself. "Uncle Charlie, I'm gonna come clean. We- me, Fred, Lou and the idiot I call a brother over there- want to help you."

Charlie, whose shrivelled-up stance had been unknowingly mimicked by the legions of gnomes waiting for the next piteous position, looked up with the morose eyes of the Tibetan Water Dragon. "What're you on about?"

"It's quite simple," Louis started before James could reply and, being James, continue to engage his mouth before his brain. "Dragons are a little too scaly and prone to breathing fire to be much fun to cuddle up to. You're the only adult Weasley not married and you ran off today, as usual, when things started getting a little too touchy-feely for a single guy like you. One plus one makes two, so consider the four of us your problem solvers."

Four faces, with expressions varying from all-out confusion to sheer disbelief at the shared gene pool, turned in Louis' direction.

"What," he muttered, stepping back a few paces, "Vic's the one you go to if you want Anaïs Nin-type sentiments."

"No, no, thank you. The last thing we are doing is getting Charlie into any French erotic escapades. Not knowingly, anyway," Albus said, repressing a shudder at the, quite frankly, extremely disturbing image in his head. "It's even simpler than the crap Lou just spouted. We're going to find you a girlfriend."

Fred nodded wisely, James looked slightly put out that his moment of glory in delivering the masterplan had been stolen, and Charlie looked back and forth between the four of them, nonplussed in the truest sense of the word. He was quite capable of determining the meanings behind the varying degrees of heat of a dragon's fire; more than able to understand the psychological complexities that made a dragon snort steam a certain number of times in swift succession; and as for prising a newborn egg out from underneath a mother dragon's nose in order to catalogue, record and tag it? That was a walk in the park, that was stealing the Snitch from under Lily's nose in family Quidditch, that was winding Percy up before 9am.

Understanding why his nephews were suddenly so willing to solve this dilemma of the heart? Arithmetic Divination to him.

"Let's just pretend I wanted help," he spluttered, "why-"

"Of course you want help, I mean-" Fred said.

"You're sitting in the garden shed at a family lunch, raking your hair out and looking like Rosie when Uncle Ron told her she had to stop dating Scorp," James exploded, relishing his all-too-brief moment in the verbal spotlight. When his brain caught up with his mouth, he paled. "Oh, bad example…"

"If you're sitting there wondering why on earth you'd want to give a measure of control over your personal life to four teenagers who apparently have yet to make a substantial mark on the world and who seemingly know nothing about love and/or organising something on this scale, allow me to elaborate," Al spoke softly, but his voice, as all good Black Market/underground school network's masters' did, carried over the din of cousins arguing and an uncle wondering what on earth was in the cheese straws he had devoured when he arrived. "Lou's half French and, to cap that off, part-Veela. In fact, he's the only male part-Veela for a very long time. He, despite the Nineties boy-band hairstyle and what I'm sure are semi-permanent highlights, has girls queuing up left, right and centre to go out with him. All James needs to do is tug at the collar of his shirt or mention the name 'Potter', and he's getting laid that night. But before I end up with my face a bloody pulp, I will add that he is more than an animal of primal urges, and his ability to pull miracles off is, in a somewhat clichéd manner, nothing short of miraculous. Freddie is Freddie, what more do I need to say, and as for me… well, I've got fingers in a lot of pies, if you'll excuse the Muggle saying and borderline vulgarity, and I always get things done. So between the four of us, you see, this will undoubtedly be interesting."

At this point Charlie was 97% certain that there had been some form of hallucinatory drug in the cheese straws, or that he had dealt with one pregnant dragon too many and was, in fact, dead and in some form of twisted, hyper-realistic afterlife. And as he struggled to wrap his mind around what the hell was happening and where he was and who he was, his nephews waited patiently, a moment which thoroughly deserved to be scrapbooked by Aunt Audrey as the four of them were, for the first time in living memory, sitting or standing in close proximity to each other at absolute and harmonious peace.

"Look, boys," Charlie started some time later and only when the querying voices of the formerly loved-up adults could be heard in the vicinity of the shed, "I don't know where you came up with this idea, but-"

"But you think it's an excellent one and have no problem with us getting down to business. Ta-rah, then," James interrupted, finishing with a grin on his face. Beaming in his signature style and without waiting for his emotionally exhausted uncle to formulate some sort of response beyond a sigh, he led his brother and cousins out of the shed, the four of them all but prancing as they navigated the hurdles the shed presented far more gracefully this time around.

With a groan, Charlie hauled himself into an upright position and followed them out. He was covered in cobwebs, sniffing and sneezing; his back ached something mad and he was, apparently, not far off being acquainted with a woman his nephews thought would make a good girlfriend for him. Faced with the prospect of returning to the same romance-obsessed couples he had left some time ago, he remained absolutely, thoroughly and completely convinced that dancing the tango barefoot on the surface of the Sun with a heavily pregnant Hungarian Horntail was indeed the more preferable option.

August ended, somewhat predictably, it had to be said, with neither James nor Fred making Head Boy; Albus finally being reinstated as the Slytherin Quidditch Captain; Lucy unfortunately failing to break with tradition and being made a Prefect; and with Charlie, looking (metaphorically) lighter than he had done for years, making his way back to Romania and his dragon-centric existence. The bizarre promise of an end to his (human) companion-less existence had brought the sort of glint to his eye that was usually reserved for the birth of a new Welsh Green or for England hammering any other Home Nation in the Quidditch Autumn Internationals. The genial, joking, brazen and brash Charlie that they all loved had made a definite comeback, particularly when in the company of the couples he had termed 'too wishy-washy lovey-dovey' in recent weeks.

That the long-run continuity of such behaviour rested on the success of four cocky teenagers' match-making endeavours put no extra pressure on said foursome.

None whatsoever.

It was _entirely_ natural for James to spend long periods with paper and pen in hand, and for Fred to start asking Aunt Hermione about routers and Ethernet cables; for the two of them to choose to spend the last few days of the summer holidays in their bedrooms as opposed to roaming around London until the early hours. (It was, admittedly, very normal for Louis to charm the pants off any woman he came across and decided to bring under his spell, and for Albus to muse about shipping costs and communications networks under his breath; and so their behaviour was little cause for alarm.)

Nevertheless, with all pretence abandoned, there was nothing more unnatural than seeing the four boys spending time apart; choosing not to sit in corners together discussing Merlin-knew-what; muttering to themselves and mentioning more female pronouns and the name 'Charlie' more often than could be deemed rational. There was, their parents were convinced, something going on, but as was the way with Potters and Weasleys, scheming children were left to their own devices, with the adults somewhat secure in the knowledge that the consequences would be of their own making and their comeuppance thoroughly deserved should anything go awry.


End file.
